28. Kiara
twenty-eight
Kiara
I t’s now Monday and we’re driving in central Vermont through a maze of backroads. The Northeast Kingdom, where we live, is rugged and strikingly beautiful. Here, the landscape could serve as a model for the na?ve prints found in nurseries: it’s absolutely adorable.
The hills are lower, softer. Snow-covered pastures are lined with deep-green woods and the occasional split-rail fence. Dirt driveways draw straight lines from our two-lane road to white farmhouses and red barns.
Colton makes a turn onto a gravel road, and I barely have time to catch the name on the sign posted at the entrance in simple gold cursive against a white backdrop.
Is he for real? It can’t be. My pulse accelerates and my eyes widen.
“Are you… are we… are you taking me to… Sweet Grove Bakehouse ?” I ask in a strangled voice. As the words form in my mouth, the driveway curves and the familiar shape of the house featured on the logo of the iconic pastry school emerges against a backdrop of evergreens.
I’m more excited than the proverbial kid in a candy store. I want to shriek my excitement but instead ask in a whisper, “How did you manage to get us in?”
Sweet Grove Bakehouse—SGB—is the refuge of iconic pastry chef Annabel Plum. She left the craziness of working for the best restaurants on the planet to run a very profitable online channel and occasional in-person teaching. She writes beautiful pastry books with pictures from the best photographers in the world that hit the bestseller lists every time. She refuses to go on television. Or to bake for restaurants—or anyone.
As far as I’m concerned, she’s the most famous hermit in the world. Her semi-private courses sell for thousands of dollars within minutes of being posted on her website.
So, yeah. My question for Colton stands as it goes unanswered, and we pull to a stop. He rounds the car, opens my door, and extends his hand to help me out.
My legs are jelly. “Colt, what are we doing here? We can’t possibly…” I don’t want to be rude, but a session at SGB is too expensive. Colton doesn’t need to do this for me to make me understand how much he cares about me.
Annabel Plum herself appears on her covered porch. I’d recognize her face anywhere. She’s wearing her signature chef jacket and, on her head, the pink bandana she adopted when she left “the life” to tackle baking in her own way. “Colton Harper! You made it!” she exclaims. “Where is she? Come on in! It’s cold!”
Her smile is infectious. She’s warm and welcoming and my initial shyness at meeting one of the legends in my industry dissipates to leave intense curiosity, excitement, and a bit of overwhelm.
All of a sudden a slight panic gets a hold of me, fighting with the elation of being here. I wish I’d known we were coming. I could have mentally prepared.
Somehow I’m out of the car, and Colton has my hand in a warm grip. “Relax, sweetness. It’s cool,” he tells me, amusement in his voice.
The legendary pastry chef crosses her arms and looks at us with kind interest, her light blue eyes dancing on her round, freckled face.
“So you kept the secret, huh?” she says as we join her at the front door. “Good for you, Colt.” She extends her hand and turns her gaze to me. “Hi, I’m Annabel Plum. Call me Annabel, and welcome to Sweet Grove Bakehouse.”
I stick my hand out nervously, trying to temper my urge to jump up and down. “Kiara Smith, and yes, I know who you are.”
“I’ve heard of you too,” she answers casually as she leads us inside.
I lock eyes with Colton. “What did you tell her?” I whisper, embarrassment flushing my cheeks as I imagine him gushing over my pastries to the GOAT. And why is she calling him Colt? Does he know her?
After we take our coats off, Annabel leads us into a large open space with a post and beam vaulted ceiling two stories high. The white landscape illuminates an immaculate space mainly dedicated to baking and cooking. Four ovens, induction and gas ranges, professional-grade equipment, three islands. Everything is of professional quality, but at the same time, an elevated decor of chandeliers, fresh flowers in mason jars, and a large live-edge table laden with Farmhouse Pottery dinnerware and Simon Pearce handmade glasses turns the space into a haven of welcoming luxury.
The white and chrome of the kitchen is softened by the wooden accents of the central dining area. Beyond that, the living room area is defined by an off-white sprawling sectional covered with pastel throw pillows, two leather chairs, and a coffee table covered with Annabel’s books.
Annabel pulls three small glasses and an unmarked bottle of liquor from a cabinet. “Sit down,” she says, gesturing to the stools lined at the kitchen counter. She pours three glasses and sits across from us. “To friends,” she says, cheering.
“To friends,” Colton answers.
I take a small sip, letting the sweet wine warm my insides. Mmm. Interesting. A basic, classic orange wine macerated with cloves. I’ll have to tell Haley to try that. Then I decide it’s time I come out of my starstruck shell and ask the first of many questions that have been assailing me in the last minutes. “So… how do you know each other?” My eyes go between Colton and Annabel. I can’t believe he kept such a secret from me.
“From the garage,” Annabel answers. “My husband loves vintage cars, and we’ve been to Emerald Creek a few times to get some work done.”
“That’s it?” I ask, incredulous. Colton doesn’t make friends with his clients. He’s friendly enough. But that’s not what gets you an in with a celebrity.
“Pretty much,” Annabel says. Then with a small smile, to which Colton responds with an actual blush, she adds, “He might have personally delivered a car once, and I might have invited him over for a pear and almond tart, and he might have said he had a friend who could share her recipe with me because mine lacked…” She turns her gaze to Colton, while I feel my insides shrink in horror. “What did it lack again?”
“A touch of bitterness. The types of almonds you used, if I remember correctly.”
She opens her mouth in an Ah shape, and says, “Right. A touch of bitterness, just on the first bite, almost—”
Almost erased by the sweetness of the pear but still there as a memory that makes you better appreciate the sweetness of the fruit and the softness of the crust.
I’d explained this to Colton, two or three years ago. I was rambling on about how certain flavors hit certain taste buds and that it was important to consider this when creating a pastry—or any dish, really. You didn’t throw ingredients together just because you liked them on their own. Pairing them so they completed each other was a step in the right direction. But analyzing the experience it would provide nanosecond by nanosecond as each layer of flavor built on each other? Now that was the foundation of a successful creation.
“—Almost erased by the pear but still there to make you better appreciate the sweetness and softness of the fruit and the crust,” Colton completes. He remembers?
They both exchange a chuckle. “Lemme tell you, Roger thought it was the funniest thing ever.” She looks at me. “Roger’s my husband.”
My cheeks are burning, but I don’t dare ask for confirmation. Did Colton actually…? Just thinking about it, I’m dry heaving.
“And he was right,” she tells me. “ You were right. I quickly asked him who’d given him such knowledge of pastry, and he happily gave me all your information. Told me where I could buy your ‘stuff.’ That’s what he called it. ‘Stuff.’” She rolls her eyes.
Did Annabel Plum ever eat my stuff ? And if so, what did she think?
Colton shrugs like none of this is a big deal. His eyes are on me, and he looks… proud. He’s quiet, soaking it all in. He knows this is a big deal for me. Meeting Annabel Plum.
“The next time he came here to fix something or another on Roger’s car, he brought a whole sampling of your ‘stuff.’ He said it was to thank me for the tart the previous time.”
Colton lifts his shoulders. “I didn’t know you were a big deal,” he says as a matter of apology.
I hide my face in my hands in mock acknowledgment of low-key shame and groan.
Annabel laughs. “It was so sweet! And he was right, your stuff was… quite the stuff. I’m glad he brought you over, and I finally get to meet the woman that has this mechanic so wrapped around her finger that he knows the difference between a macaroon and a macaron.”
I smile at the memory of how this piece of trivia came to Colton’s attention. It was nothing notable, just a quiet evening playing video games. I’d told him how I’d maybe overreacted when Alex—who was at the time Chris’s new apprentice—had knocked down a whole platter of macarons that took me a while to make, and he thought it was no big deal. Still high from my day’s frustrations, I tore him a new one until I realized he thought I was talking about macaroons—something I’d taught Willow to do a while back.
Willing to move the conversation away from me, I twirl the deep gold wine in my glass. “This is really good,” I observe.
“My grandmother was French,” Annabel says. “That was her go-to aperitif. Vin d’orange. I modified it a bit.” She takes a quick intake of breath. “Colton tells me you’re thinking of going to the ICPV?”
The Institut Culinaire Pierre de Varanges is where I’m hoping against all odds that I’ll be accepted. I didn’t realize that Colton had memorized the name. I glance at him, surprised, though not upset that he shared this with her. “That’s right. I’m hoping they’ll accept me with a full scholarship.”
“And what do you hope to get from it?” She takes another sip of her vin d’orange, looking at me over the rim of her glass, her gaze on me with kindness. I’ve still not fully come down from my high of sitting casually with her at what’s pretty much her kitchen table, drinking aperitif—and with Colton, of all people.
“Skills, and name recognition,” I answer.
She looks out the window and squints her eyes. “It’s funny how women tend to seek external approval way more than men. We always think we’re not good enough. Or we’re a fraud. I know I was that way.”
I don’t respond. She doesn’t realize it, but it’s easy for her to say that. She’s had the top chefs as teachers. She climbed the ranks among the best, making her connections along the way. Of course she doesn’t see what she got from it: the ability to move to the middle of nowhere and still be a celebrity.
Not so for me. Or maybe it will be, once I go through some high-level training that leads to a career like Annabel Plum’s.
“I thought we could play around with genoise and pate à bombe today. Plan for a layer cake and see where that leads us?” Annabel asks, standing up.
“Sounds like a plan I like,” Colton interjects with a huge smile, rubbing his hands. He picks up the glasses and brings them to the kitchen, rinsing them. “I’ll be on dishes duty. Wouldn’t mind licking the bowl and what not, if that’s okay,” he says from afar.
“Unless you had something else in mind?” Annabel asks me.
“To be honest,” I say, still struggling to steady my voice when talking to her, “I haven’t given this any thought. Colton totally surprised me by bringing me here.” I’m pretty comfortable with my genoise skills, and I wouldn’t mind impressing Annabel. I’m sure she’ll have something to teach me anyway. “Genoise and pate à bombe sounds great.”
We wash our hands, don large, white aprons, then take the ingredients out of the refrigerator. I’m still so starstruck I barely talk, instead taking in the setting and observing every one of Annabel’s gestures, the relaxed yet mindful way she handles food. “When you go to France,” she says as I start a bain-marie, “you’ll have eggs at room temperature all the time. Did you know that?”
I’m lightly rapping the eggs one by one on the side of the large mixing bowl that will go above the hot water, focusing on giving each shell a clean break. It’d be just my luck to start this session with shattered eggshells, like a newbie. But my hands don’t betray me, and my self-confidence returns. “How so?”
“Their food safety practices focus on the source, at the farms. Europe has mandatory vaccinations that are only recommended here, and animal welfare practices and regulations that also contribute to lowering risks.”
I set the eggs on top of the hot water and measure the sugar while listening to her.
“Because of that, they don’t wash the eggs at the farms. The cuticle of the egg remains, which is a natural barrier against bacterial contamination. Here, we strip the egg of its natural protection. That’s why we need to refrigerate them here, but not in France.”
“Aren’t the eggs… dirty?”
“Nope. They have strict hygiene regulations for nesting areas, and if an egg is dirty, it’s discarded.”
I monitor the temperature of the bain-marie so the eggs don’t cook. I just need them to be at room temperature.
“There are so many different things in different countries. French butter, for example, has more fat content than US butter, and the flour is radically different too. Luckily, you won’t have to worry about making your own recipes at the Institut.”
“If I’m accepted,” I interject while vigorously whipping the eggs and sugar together.
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. They love a self-made pastry chef story.”
The eggs and sugar beaten to a perfect ribbon consistency, I remove the mixing bowl from the bain-marie. Annabel discards the water while I start measuring the flour.
“I think I’ll just join Colt and watch you,” Annabel says, which makes me instantly blush. “Just kidding. I don’t want to miss out on the fun. Here’s something you can try. Fold the flour in threes instead of half, then half.”
“Got it.”
“You have such perfect gestures,” she murmurs. “No wonder your ‘stuff’ is so good. It’s all in the energy you project into your creations.”
“Should we add melted butter?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, if we’re going to layer it with a pate à bombe, then yes. It won’t be as light, but it’ll be richer. And since we’re likely not incorporating any syrups, then…”
“I say go for richer,” Colt says. He’s been looking at us, seemingly fascinated.
Annabel chuckles and pulls the butter out of the refrigerator. We quickly melt it, then incorporate it delicately so it doesn’t weigh down the flour. As we put the genoise in the oven, Colt says, “That’s it?”
“Now, the fun starts,” I answer him.
“What she said,” Annabel echoes. “Chocolate—”
“Obviously.”
“What else are you thinking?”
“What you got?”
She tilts her head. “Challenge me.”
“Candied ginger?”
“I make my own.”
“Cardamom, star anise, saffron?’
“I said challenge me!”
I smile at that.
“Pink peppercorn? Smoked salt? Cocoa nibs? Black garlic?”
“Y-yes. Yes I do have that.”
Wanting to find her limits, I add, “Black truffles?”
She crosses her arms and smirks. “Had them for breakfast, just ran out.”
“Ha!”
She gives me a high five. “Alright, how we doin’ this?”
Her energy is contagious and makes me want to try everything. “Let’s go a little wild.”
“I like it.”
“On a base of dark chocolate, let’s add Thai basil, a balsamic vinegar reduction to balance the richness of the cocoa, a drop of Chartreuse—”
“Or I have a liquor reduction of the vin d’orange,” Annabel suggests.
“Nice. But what if we served it with the cake, instead of incorporating it in the recipe? The orange and spice chocolate would be magnificent together.”
“You guys are making me salivate,” Colton groans.
“I like that,” Annabel says. “I especially love it when restaurants serve the right wine with the dessert. It’s… it’s bringing the dessert to where it deserves to be.” She takes a notebook and scribbles down what we just decided. “What else?” she asks me.
“Pink peppercorn for spice.”
She adds that to the list and says, “I have tonka bean.” Then looks up at me and wiggles her eyebrows.
Tonka beans aren’t legal in the United States. You little criminal . I beam at her. “Get outta here.”
“You ever used’em?”
“Uh. No ma’am. Only heard of them.”
“Tonka beans it is, but this stays between us.”
This time I’m the one high-fiving her.
I’m excited about the tonka beans but want to refocus on our project. “How about for texture? Toasted puffed quinoa for extra crunch? In general, I love candied ginger—but here I don’t want it to overpower the other flavors we have going. How about we keep it for the garnish?”
“Yes, I like that. Now, how do you feel about a drop of olive oil for extra smoothness?” she suggests.
“Oh, I’ve never tried that!”
“You’ll love it,” she answers, scribbling on her notepad. “Ok. What do you think?”
“I think we have enough to work with.”
“Agreed. Oh!” She turns to the oven. “Little challenge here for you. Just checking you don’t need a timer. Is this ready yet?”
I open the oven and glance at the genoise. The scent of butter and sugar wafts through the air, a good sign. But its color is uneven. “I don’t think so,” I answer. Just to be sure, I press lightly on its surface. The indentation stays, the cake not bouncing back. “I’d say ten more minutes.”
“Let’s keep an eye on it,” Annabel says, visibly satisfied with my answer. We spend the rest of the afternoon into the early evening chatting and baking. I’m out of my starstruck freeze, and I find myself discussing baking techniques and product sourcing as if Annabel were an old friend of mine. The pate à bombe turns out spectacular, and Colton is blown away. And I get to taste and bake with tonka beans for the first time in my life, an experience I won’t forget.
“Isn’t she the best?” I ask Colton the moment we turn off her driveway, making our way home. “So cool and sweet. Who would have thought?”
Colton’s lips curve up. “She’s a baker, of course she’s cool and sweet. It’s a requirement. Didn’t you know?”
Over the course of that afternoon, I learned that Annabel’s husband, Roger the vintage car enthusiast, wasn’t there that day, which meant Colton spent several hours half participating in something he has a moderate interest in but I’m passionate about. It was a dream come true for me and, at best, a boring time for him.
And he did it all for me. As a date!
I slowly come down from my high to focus on the most important thing that happened today: Colton gave me a date that was entirely focused on me.
Overtaken by a wave of tenderness, I place my hand on his arm, then run it up to his neck, relishing the feel of his hair under my hand.
His mouth twitches as he glances at me.
“Thank you,” I say as I lean over the center console to kiss his cheek. “Best date ever.” I’m hit by the coconut scent of his shampoo in a way that moves me deeply.
The tenderness I felt a moment ago is fast turning into something way more intense, so I quickly retreat into my seat and let Colton drive us safely home.